


Finding Comfort

by cmcross



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:40:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmcross/pseuds/cmcross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He didn't steal me from you, Sherlock. You left. We thought you'd died. We mourned you. We buried you. And then we tried to move on. We…we were all the other had left of you. Can you really blame us for finding comfort in that?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding Comfort

John realizes, much too late, that getting involved with one Holmes was asking for trouble, but getting involved with two was just plain stupidity. Though, to be fair to himself, he'd only ever been involved with one at a time.

But none of that mattered. Sherlock sees the entire situation as a profound betrayal of trust. Never mind that he faked his death and abandoned the only person who ever accepted him as he was to traipse around the world chasing down Moriarty's contacts. Nothing he, or Mycroft, said would change his mind.

"You have no shame," he says. "I can't believe you've done this. Again."

Mycroft shifts uncomfortably in his chair. John looks back and forth between them quickly, brow furrowed, lips rounded in curiosity. "Again? What do you mean again? What does he mean _again_?"

Touching the pads of his fingers to the rim of his brandy, Mycroft lets out a sigh and catches his tongue between his teeth. "There was a misunderstanding –

"Misunderstanding?" Sherlock slashes the bow of his violin through the air. "You stole my lover."

"Stole your…?" _Oh, God. It explains so much._

"What happened then has nothing to do with what's happening now," Mycroft says, glancing at John.

The bow is now digging into Mycroft's chest. "It has everything to do with it," the words fly from Sherlock's mouth in a snarl.

John rips the bow from Sherlock's hands and brandishes it at him. "Sit down and shut up or I'll snap this bloody thing in two."

Sherlock sits.

Mycroft moves to stand, to take the position of authority, and John swipes the bow at him. "You too. I can snap that bloody umbrella just as easy," he says, and Mycroft backs down. He glares at them both. "Talk."

Sherlock huffs, "Alexander. My lover. Mycroft stole him from me."

"Be fair," Mycroft says. "I didn't know."

A derisive snort is the only answer he gets. John is still not following. "Ok. Explain. In detail. For the stupid man in the room."

Mycroft opens his mouth several times, but can't find the proper words. The silence draws on before he finally speaks. "Alexander was a…friend of the family," he begins. "I took a gap year and went to India. During that year he and Sherlock became involved. I came home. Sherlock was off at University. I ran into Alex at a party thrown by a mutual friend. One thing lead to another and…well. I'm sure you can guess the rest. Sherlock, I swear…I didn't know. I would have never…"

John rests a hand on his shoulder and smiles when he leans into the touch. He can see Sherlock's face; can see he's holding back tears, and the way his lower lip trembles.

"You left," he says. "And you didn't write. You didn't call. You just left. And then you came back and Alex…I couldn't understand. I thought you hated me."

"You're my brother, Sherlock. I could never hate you."

"But John," he says. "How could you take John from me? You know what he means to me. He's the only one –

John interrupts. "He didn't steal me from you, Sherlock. You left. We thought you'd died. We mourned you. _We buried you._ And then we tried to move on. We…we were all the other had left of you. Can you really blame us for finding comfort in that?"

Sherlock stands and pulls on his coat. "I need to go to the Yard. Lestrade will faint dead away at the sight of me. I'm rather looking forward to it."

Mycroft opens his mouth to protest but John shakes his head at him. He knew Sherlock better than anyone. He just needed time to process it all. "Alright then."

He watches Sherlock wind his scarf around his neck and bound down the stairs. He waits for the door to slam, then turns to Mycroft. "He'll come around," he kisses him lightly.

"I hope so," Mycroft says. "I really hope so."


End file.
